When we talk about poetry, my psychologist rests his elbow on the window ledge just to the right of his chair, then rests the side of his head in his hand. I look at him — black beard speckled with white, black hair pulled back in a ponytail, black shirt, black tie, black trousers, black socks, polished black shoes — and think he looks perfect in this position. Sometimes his shirt and tie are dark blue. I wish I could figure out how to write a poem about him sitting like this.
